Finnie Walsh (8 page)

“He’ll never know. He’s probably already forgotten about the whole thing.”

“Maybe I could use the stuff next year.”

“Sure.”

So it was decided. I gave my father back the money he had
spent and kept my gear at Finnie’s, with no one the wiser. Not that anyone around our house would have noticed. My parents were totally preoccupied with the prospect of a baby. Excited as my father was though, he was determined not to fall behind on his
National Geographic
reading. He read for at least an hour and a half each morning out on the back deck, even though it was the middle of October and it wouldn’t be long before there was snow on the ground.

“Did you know,” he would say, “that dolphins use sonar to locate their food?”

“No, Bob, I didn’t,” my mother would say, not really listening.

“How about that! Who would have guessed?”

The most marked change occurred in Louise. Without her kingdom to rule, she was like a deposed queen. She spent her days sitting sullenly in front of the television and, when one of my parents finally made her go outside, she would sit even more sullenly on the front stairs and watch the other children zip around the neighbourhood. She didn’t indicate that she wanted to join them. I suspect that she did, but was unsure how to go about it. It wasn’t just that she was unusually shy, although she was by no means outgoing. She was also a fairly attractive girl, as far as I could tell, but I’ll admit that it’s difficult to gauge that sort of thing with respect to your sister. She was tall, not quite lanky and had a face that made you want to trust her right away, but she had a way of hiding it behind a shroud of sandy-coloured hair.

Her main problem was that she just didn’t have much she wanted to say. As a rule, if Louise didn’t think something was terribly important, she didn’t see the point in saying anything at all. For her, small talk was non-existent. Because small talk is a necessary step in forming friendships, even among children, Louise was, as a consequence of her verbal minimalism, at a distinct disadvantage.

The fact that there was something wrong with Louise certainly didn’t escape my parents’ attention. I suspect that, as concerned as they were, they just didn’t have the time to figure out exactly what it was. Gaining access to her thoughts was slightly harder than interpreting the information contained on a computer disk without benefit of a computer.

My mother probably would have told Louise to be positive, to find a way to make things better. My father probably would have given her a rock. It’s also possible that my parents actively chose to ignore the problem. Louise was, after all, an 11-year-old girl and they are well known for acting strangely.

To me, girls made no sense. They were mysterious creatures and Louise wasn’t any different. I was worried about her, though, and I tried not to irritate or disturb her when she was by herself. She had always been very protective about the time she spent in the basement and I assumed that meant she enjoyed being alone. I knew that most people, from time to time, needed a little time to themselves and I figured that Louise just needed more than others.

Finnie made me see that I was wrong. Whenever he came over to our house, which was fairly often, he would make a point of talking to Louise. I had never noticed how much she actually had to say when talking to Finnie. Whenever they were together, she came out of her shell, which for Louise was no small feat. Finnie had this effect on almost everyone. Without even trying, he could make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.

When I finally asked him what he thought was wrong with Louise, he looked at me like I was an alien, a very stupid alien.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t know?”

“No, no one does. Not even my dad.”

“But it’s so obvious, Paul. She’s
lonely.”

Finnie was right. It was obvious, and she was lonely.

“What should we do?”

“I don’t know. She’ll snap out of it, sooner or later.”

Reassured that I was in no way abdicating my brotherly responsibilities, I let the situation work itself out. Louise’s ability to cope with things in her own way was far greater than my own.

Finnie invited me to his first hockey game. I didn’t really want to go for fear that I would see what I was missing. The game was on a Saturday afternoon and there was a surprising number of people in attendance. I was about to sit down by myself when I saw Mr. Walsh waving me over to where he was sitting with Patrick, Gerry and Kirby.

“Hello there, Paul,” Mr. Walsh said, smiling.

“Hello, Mr. Walsh,” I answered.

“I was sorry to hear you wouldn’t be playing hockey this season.”

I could tell he was sincere. “Maybe I’ll be able to play next year,” I said.

“That’s the right attitude. Things will work themselves out.”

“I hope so.”

Mr. Walsh nodded. He was the sort of man who was accustomed to things working out. “Big game today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finnie’s first start.”

“Sure is.”

“How do you think he’ll do?”

“Well…,” I paused, wondering if Mr. Walsh wanted to hear what I really thought. I decided to hedge my bet. “I think he’ll do
OK
as long as he keeps sharp with his glove.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Thirty seconds into the game, Finnie let one in from outside the blue line. It was a high, rising shot that slipped over his glove into the net. Half of the people cheered, celebrating the goal, and the other half hung their heads in shame, feeling sorry for Finnie.

Fortunately, his team responded several minutes later, scoring on a play that was, given the ages of the players, an admirable combination of passing and skating. With the score tied, his team was back in the game and Finnie wasn’t about to make any more mistakes. For the rest of the period, he played brilliantly, stopping several shots that by all rights should have scored.

Every time Finnie made a good save, his father jumped to his feet. “That’s the way to do it, Finnie boy. That’s the way to do it!”

Even Finnie’s brothers seemed appreciative. Pat leapt out of his seat when Finnie managed to stop the puck from going in on a three-on-one rush that had given up several rebounds before Finnie smothered the play. As the game went on, his brothers tried less and less to hide the fact that they were enjoying themselves.

I was having mixed feelings about the game. I was completely impressed with Finnie’s performance; it was clear that he was a much better goaltender than I had thought and I was happy that he was finally the centre of attention, but I wasn’t impressed with the defencemen. Finnie was having to make saves he shouldn’t have had to make; I should have been there. On top of all that, I was bitten by the magic, that almost supernatural feeling that comes with being in the stands watching a game when you know you could be playing. It does strange things to your mind.

Finnie’s team won by a score of 6-1, a resounding victory. After the game, Finnie was showered with praise from his teammates and their parents as well as from his own family. He didn’t
seem to be affected by it; his face was blank and he was little more than polite to his admirers. When I asked him what was wrong, he hesitated before answering quietly, “I shouldn’t have let in that first goal and you should have been out there.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was right, he shouldn’t have let in that first goal, but everyone, including me, thought that he’d more than made up for it by the way he’d played for the rest of the game. On the subject of whether or not I belonged on the ice, I was in complete agreement, but I didn’t want to belabour the point. “Next year,” I said. “Maybe I can play next year.”

“Next year isn’t good enough,” he said.

“There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Finnie smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

When my mother became pregnant, for the third time, she was 41. That is not necessarily too old for a woman to have children, but in my mother’s case it was pushing the limits. By the time December rolled around, she was five months pregnant and she was having a difficult time coping. My father talked to Louise and me about this and we were instructed to give my mother a fair degree of latitude. Because of this, I was slower to suspect that something was wrong when I arrived home from school and discovered her seated on the kitchen counter, engaged in a heated debate with the blender.

“You think you know a lot about blending, with your fancy settings and whirring blades? Well, let me tell you, you don’t know nothing about it. Nothing!” she slurred.

I remembered my father’s warnings and silently went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of juice.

“You drinking juice, Paul? I hope you’re not drinking that juice. That juice is for special occasions.”

“Oh. Sorry,” I said.

“I’m just pulling your leg, Paul-o. That’s just ordinary juice there. No such thing as special juice, Paul-o. No such thing.” My mother collapsed to the floor, laughing. “No such thing!”

I decided that this behaviour was more than likely outside the bounds of what my father had told me to expect, so I went out to the backyard to get him. I told him what was going on and he immediately rushed inside, arriving just in time to see my mother trying to beat the toaster to death.

“You’ll be toast, toaster,” she screamed, slamming it against the counter.

“What the hell are you doing, Mary?” my father yelled, grabbing at her with his missing arm.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” she answered, resuming her assault. “I’m showing this damned toaster who’s the boss around here.” She threw the toaster onto the floor, where it shattered, sending pieces flying across the kitchen. “Who’s laughing now, huh?” my mother said as she fell to the floor, unconscious. We picked her up, piled into the car and drove to the hospital.

I was sure my mother was going to die and that Louise and I were going to be put into a foster home, since it was obvious to all of us that my father was not fit to raise two children on his own. I was understandably relieved when the doctor came out and told us that she was recovering. She had, it turned out, developed gestational diabetes. Her erratic behaviour was the result of her blood sugar being off-kilter. With insulin and closer medical supervision, she would be fine. The health of the baby was less certain, but all we could do was wait and see.

As if that weren’t trouble enough, Finnie began avoiding me. Whenever I asked him if he wanted to do something after school, he would get a peculiar look on his face and tell me he was busy.
He was like that for most of the month of December and over the Christmas holidays I didn’t see him at all. I phoned his house several times, but Clarice informed me that young master Walsh was out and wasn’t expected back until much later.

I didn’t have a clue why Finnie would want to avoid me. He was the most loyal person I had ever known; I would have had to do something very, very bad to lose his friendship.

Without Finnie, I began to experience the same sense of isolation that plagued Louise. Unlike her, though, I was unprepared to sit quietly by myself, so I resorted to following my father around. I didn’t think he had noticed Finnie’s absence, but he had.

“Where’s Finnie these days?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think he wants to be friends with me anymore.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” my father said. “I have a feeling that boy’s up to something.” He reached into his pocket and handed me another rock. I spent the better part of the day trying to figure out what the rocks were for and couldn’t, but it did help me to forget about Finnie.